by Lynn Kurland
She hoped her father was not worried about her. If he were, she doubted whether he would openly search for her. He would not want anyone to believe her a disobedient daughter, who might also be a disobedient wife. She had wished many times that she had been the son he'd had wanted so desperately, both for his sake and her own. She could not even imagine the freedom of being a man.
Like the minstrel. He could go anywhere he wished. Envy filled her mind.
She watched the sides of the creek, looking for signs of a rider emerging from its bank. She was so intent on the ground that she nearly fell from the saddle when another rider appeared.
She saw the thin white legs of the nag first, then her gaze moved upward. The saddle was worn, but he sat it easily. She had not seen him on horseback before, and she realized immediately that he was not unused to it. He sat in the saddle like a man born to it.
His cap was pulled down over his eyes and his lips had a wry twist to them. "I thought I outwitted them," he said.
"You did. But I knew you were there, and they didn't know what the dogs were after."
"Why did you come back?"
To save you? As she looked at him, she suddenly realized how foolish that was. Even on the swayback mare, he looked every part the lord. He looked at ease, even, mayhap, a little amused. Nothing at all like a man being hunted.
"I… was afraid for you."
Something changed in his eyes. He moved his horse toward her and reached out a hand to take hers. "I… have been a soldier for ten years," he said. "I've fought in Europe, and I've fought too many of my countrymen. I know well how to look after myself."
Lynet suddenly felt foolish. And yet fear had burned inside her.
"And no young woman," he continued, "has ever worried about me before." There was something oddly poignant about the words, about the sudden discordant vulnerability she thought flashed through his eyes. Tension leapt between them, filling the air with expectancy. She felt the throb of her heartbeat grow stronger. The sound reverberated through her body.
She started to back her horse away. His touch was like a torch against her skin. The air seemed to still.
"I will go then," she said, knowing that every moment she stayed would make it that much harder to meet him again. The thought of never seeing him again was unbearable.
"What is your name, mistress?"
She hesitated. Everyone in the nearby village knew her. And 'Lynet'? was not that common a name. "Mary," she said.
"Mary," he said slowly, as if folding his tongue around it.
"And you?" she asked.
"I go by many names, Mary," he replied, once more saying the name as if it were something very tasty.
"It is unfair to talk in riddles," she chastised him,
"Call me Robin then," he said.
"I must get back," she said, aware now that the sun was straight above. If nothing else, she must return before the hunters did. The last thing she wished was to meet them.
"You still owe me a lesson," he said.
He had been an apt student. He knew enough now to hold a musician's post while learning more songs.
If only he would smile more.
She looked back up at his face. He was smiling now. At least, it was a half smile. It was quite hard to tell the way his lips had those little crooks in them. But his eyes looked softer than they had before, more approachable. She wanted to stay and see exactly how approachable they could be. She wanted to sit with him and hear his adventures and ask him about foreign lands.
Most of all she wanted to feel the touch of that callused hand on hers again.
She wanted it so badly that it terrified her. "I must go," she said again.
He maneuvered his horse in front of her. "Not unless you promise to meet me again."
She tried to move around him, but the horse he rode was quicker than she thought possible.
"I will be beaten," she said desperately.
"And I will kill whoever might attempt to do that," her minstrel said in a very unminstrel way. In fact, she felt a shiver down her back. He meant it.
"All right then," she said. "But up here. There is a cave just beyond those branches." She pointed to a huge oak that grew crookedly on the side of the hill. "There."
"At dawn?"
"Aye."
"I will comb the countryside if you do not come," he said with a frown.
She believed it too. "Please, I must go now."
He turned his horse so she could get by.
"My thanks," he said, "for worrying about me."
His voice was humble, and her chest suddenly ached. No young woman has ever worried about me before.
What would he do when he discovered who it was that so worried about him? Would he believe himself only an amusement?
Why had she not told him in the beginning? Because then he would have gone. She would not have had this one last adventure.
And what price might they both have to pay for it?
five
Dawn could not come too early for Duncan.
He had left the creek and had ridden into the village. There he had again found an inn for himself and some feed for the mare. He made what he hoped were discrete queries about a maid named Mary.
Everyone regarded him suspiciously until he offered to trade a meal for entertainment and gossip from other parts. The offer was readily accepted. He remembered what Mary had told him, had tried a smile and lightened his fingers. It did not seem to help. Drunken conversation drowned out nearly every sound, but nonetheless he had established the fact that he was, for better or worse, a minstrel, an entertainer. He hoped the word would drift to Clenden.
After he put down the lute, he found conversation far easier. He was a wanderer and must have news to share. What was happening in the countryside? Had he been to London? Had he seen the new king? Had he heard of new taxes?
He answered as well as he could. He did not say he had fought with the Lancasters. This was northern England and most of the loyalties here had been with Edward and Richard of York. Regional hostilities, he knew, would exist for a long time. Too many nobles had been attainted, too many estates taken. There were already whispers of another rebellion to remove Henry Tudor.
But Duncan knew the country was weary of war and that Henry was aware of the conspirators. He would not tolerate their activities for long.
He said none of this. Instead, he spoke of court gossip, marriages and new alliances. Many would have heard of such, even if they had not oft supped with the king.
"We ha' a bride here, too," said one man whose tongue loosened as he drank. " 'Tis said the earl's oldest daughter will wed. 'Twill mean a fine celebration."
Clenden was where he had been headed before his encounter with the forest maid. He'd heard there were to be guests, and guests usually meant employment for musicians, hopefully not just a night or two. He'd wanted to stay places long enough to learn about the ladies in the household.
But he had delayed his visit upon meeting his lady of the woods. He feared that were he to leave, he may never see her again.
Could she possibly be in service at Clenden?
"There are two more daughters to wed," another man said. "The earl was cursed with females and no son."
Two unwed daughters.
"They be beauties, too," said another. "Too bad about the eldest. She be plain. But the marriage settlement will be high."
Duncan listened idly. He knew he should be paying more attention. This was, after all, the reason for his journey. But he had no interest in noble ladies at the moment. He could only think of a young girl dressed as a lad who rode as well as any man.
He also wondered whether this journey had really been to find a bride, as much as it had been a quest for freedom. Freedom from responsibilities, from taking men into battle. He couldn't remember a time when he wasn't aware that everything he did could result in someone's death. In truth, he had made a vow to his mother, but he'd seized upon it as an excuse to be som
eone else for one small period of time, someone who could wander as he wished, befriend whom he wished. He'd wanted to escape the constraints of his rank.
He knew he would not have much longer to steal these hours. Henry Tudor would expect a wife and he would expect taxes. He would also expect him to be rebuilding Worthington.
Loyalty from a king usually lasted only as long as the usefulness of the subject did. Duncan had no illusions about that.
He emptied his tankard of poor ale and pushed back his chair. He had already announced that he would sleep in the woods since he was using his last coin to feed his horse. He was regarded as a madman at that pronouncement, but he said he had a long distance to go and it was a small enough price for transportation.
The innkeeper told him he would be welcome to a free meal the next night, if he would sing again. It was the first time that he had been asked back, and he felt a jolt of pleasure at being accomplished at something other than killing. He nodded, then left.
An hour later he was at the cave his lady had pointed out earlier in the day. It was deep and he was protected from the wind. He built a small fire.
Five, six hours before dawn. He could barely believe how anxious he was, how worried that she would not come. He had learned nothing about her, had no way of finding her.
He considered riding into Clenden as he had first intended rather than skulking about in the woods and being taken for a thief or poacher. But what if he was turned away before finding her? Then he would have no excuse to linger.
Other than a plain dirk, he had no weapons. No one would believe him a lord. More likely he would be considered a lunatic. And that would not be far from the truth.
Merde, what was he doing? Mooning over a servant girl, who was probably already pledged to another, when he should be about finding a wife. One that would be acceptable to King Henry. Otherwise, what would happen to his estates?
He had fought ten years to restore the properties to his family. He had been too late to bring his mother back home, but he was not going to let his ancestral home go. He owed it to his forebearers—and to his future children.
Fool. Still, he didn't move. She had probably risked everything for him, taking her master's horse yet again. He should do something for her. If only he knew who she was.
For one of the few times in his life, he did not see a straight line to an objective. He had never liked subterfuge, but the moment he'd embarked on this folly, he'd buried himself in it. He should just walk away.
But then he would never see her again. The thought filled him with quiet despair. Another morning at least. Just one more morning.
Mary. It was a quiet name. A tranquil name. But it did not quite fit her. She had fire in her eyes. Curiosity. She would be no tame wife for a man.
He realized suddenly he wanted no tame wife.
Unable to sleep with his mind filled with images of her, he took the lute and strummed it.
Lynet knew she would meet him the next morning. Still, she knew she was risking everything, including her father's respect and love. Yet she could no more stay away from the cave on the morrow than she could keep the first rays of sun from touching the earth at dawn.
All the way back home, she could think of nothing but him despite the danger for both of them. She managed to return before the hunters and slip through the empty bailey up to her room.
Willa was waiting for her. "My lady? Your father has been asking for you." Her voice was full of curiosity.
Lynet trusted her completely, and she knew she would need help in the morning. It was time to confide in someone. "I have been helping a troubadour improve his craft," she said.
Willa's eyes opened wide. "A troubadour, my lady?"
Lynet nodded. "And I might need your help in the morning."
"Is he handsome?"
Lynet mulled that question. He wasn't. And yet he was fiercely attractive. Or just attractive in a fierce way. She was babbling in her mind.
Willa giggled. "I see he is, my lady."
"I am just helping him learn a few songs, Willa," Lynet insisted. "He is a soldier who was discharged. He is looking for a new occupation." Unfortunately her face felt hot, and she knew it must be scarlet.
Willa looked at her knowingly. She was a born romantic, and her eyes were twinkling. "Good," she said.
"It is not good at all. He means nothing to me. I am just…"
"Helping," Willa finished with a grin. "What can I do to help, my lady?"
"You can visit your sick mother tomorrow," she said.
"But she…" Willa stopped suddenly. "Oh. Of course I must."
"I will tell Selwyn to have a very gentle horse ready for you in the morning, and I feel a bit faint. The monthlies. I believe I will stay in my room most of tomorrow."
Willa's eyes gleamed with adventure. "Before I leave, I will bring you chocolate and tell everyone you are not to be disturbed."
"It could be dangerous for you."
"Poof," Willa said. "I am just happy to see your face light like that."
"I will have to chose a husband soon." It was as much a reminder to herself as to Willa.
"All the more reason to have an adventure," Willa said.
Lynet knew that Willa had had a few amorous adventures herself, and she had always envied the maid her freedom. She could marry the man she loved. She was not restrained by rank and family loyalty.
They discussed the details of tomorrow's switch, then Willa helped her dress. Her father, Willa said, had asked about her but he'd had a bad day with the gout and had been too miserable to worry about her.
Lynet went to her father's room. She had selected a gown that was her father's favorite and that drew a smile from him. "You look very well, Daughter," he said. "Robert will be pleased." He hesitated, then added, "Have you considered his offer?"
"It would not be fair to the others," she said primly.
He sighed. "I will expect you to choose one," he said.
"I know."
"I do not feel well enough to go to supper," he said. "You go along and entertain them." He looked old and frightened. Her heart contracted. Though he was not a man who showed affection, he had taught her to read, had given her the means to take her own adventures through books. He had allowed her to ride, or at least had not forbade it. She owed him much. She leaned over and kissed him, seeing the pleased surprise in his eyes.
Then she left the room and steeled herself for the evening ahead.
Lynet tried to be pleasant at the evening meal. She smiled, asked pleasantly about the hunt and praised their skills when told they had killed some pheasant. Robert, Earl of Kellum, grumbled about lazy dogs that went crazy when they were tracking some animal.
She'd smiled her best smile. "The dogs are usually very good at finding their quarry," she said.
Robert frowned. "Could have been a poacher," he said. "There were a number of tracks but your huntmaster couldn't tell what was new and what was old."
Or mayhap chose not to, she thought. The huntsman was old, and he had been sorely tried these past few days by the guests, "I go there on occasion," she said. "They probably belonged to me. And I doubt whether it was a poacher," she said. "The poor know they can get food from Clenden. It was probably nothing but a cagey fox."
His expression cleared at the explanation. "Will you take a moment of air with me, my lady?"
She knew what he'd wanted. He wanted to know whether she favored his suit. She looked up at him, at the face that was far more handsome than her minstrel. But there was none of the character that was etched in the other's face, no crinkles around the eyes that spoke of having experienced more than wealth.
But she'd had no reason to refuse him. "Yes," she said.
They walked for several moments. She felt it hard to believe how ill at ease she was with her father's guests, and how completely, comfortable she had been with the wanderer. But then she'd always been ill at ease with her father's friends. They were loud and boisterous and talked o
f little but war.
"Your father said the decision is yours." he said, a note of disapproval creeping into his voice. "I am hoping you favor my suit."
"Why?" she asked, really wanting to know. "Why would you wish to wed me?"
"It would be a good alliance, my lady. For both of us. My family has a long history of siring sons. It does not have wealth. Your father needs an heir, and my estates need the marriage portion after years of war." He hesitated. "He also needs our friendship. Your father tried to be neutral but to the Tudor that means he is an enemy. Mine favored the Lancasters. He needs us."
A business and political arrangement. Nothing more. And an emphasis on sons. She knew what that meant, and her soul shriveled at the thought of bedding with Robert.
At least, he did not pretend. And yet it seemed so cold. Not one word of affection, not one fond look. She shivered. It would be the same with the other two, she knew. The reasons might vary some small bit, but the motive would be the same. The other two would marry her, too, whether they wished it or not. Their families' needs transcended the myth of love. She felt cold and empty,
Robert leaned down and kissed her. It was a rough kiss, almost brutal with no hint of gentleness. "I will care for you, my lady," he said when he released her. "You will want for nothing." Except love. Except tenderness.
"I am aware of the honor you offer me," she said, her face stinging from the roughness of his skin. "But my father told the others he would give me a fortnight to choose. It would be unfair…"
"I can offer more than the other two," he said. "We have the Tudor's trust, and we breed boys."
As if she were a horse or cow. "I have made a promise to my father. I cannot break it," she said.
He smiled, and she realized that he considered that her consent. Pride, she thought, would not allow him to believe otherwise. "I will wait for your decision then, my lady," he said.
He turned and guided her back inside. He had apparently achieved what he wanted. At least he had demonstrated a readiness to wed her, she thought, which was more than the other two had done.